“Meanwhile,” Niko leans forward, “double down on your estate perimeter. Cameras, patrols, the whole nine yards.”
“I’m on it,” I say, because I already am—cameras streaming, motion sensors in every blind spot, men posted where the light leaks thin.
Lev leans forward, watching me like he’s trying to read a map. “Maybe move her somewhere less…obvious for now. Make it harder for Chang to find her.” His tone’s careful; he’s trying not to insult me, but there’s a smear of amusement there too.
I feel the room tilt, like a current under the surface. “She’s safest by my side,” I say flatly.
They laugh—Niko louder, Lev with a softer, brotherly mockery—and it’s all on the edge of teasing.
“You don’t even want to let her out of your sight, do you?” Kaz says. “Not even for a pizza,” Adrian adds, grinning.
I shrug, because there’s nothing to defend. “Maybe I don’t,” I admit, and their laughter intensifies.
I shut them down with a look, but the truth sits heavy and honest under my ribs: Every plan, every patrol, every carefulstep is mapped by the shape of her. I tell myself it’s strategy. I tell myself it’s duty. Inside, quieter than the rest, something else answers—possession, yes, but more than that: a stupid, feral need to keep her where I can see she’s breathing.
Later that night, I’m in my suite, cleaning my weapons. It’s the only thing that quiets the noise in my head when it gets too loud—steel, oil, precision. The rhythm helps. Strip, clean, reload. The smell of gunmetal and oil fills the room, sharp and familiar.
Elara hasn’t come back here tonight. Her room light was off when I passed earlier, but I know she’s inside, probably curled up in that bed of hers, trying to convince herself she still hates me. I could order her to come here. She’d obey, reluctantly, eyes full of defiance and that dangerous spark I can’t stay away from. But what’s the point? When will she choose me without command? When will she stop fighting what’s already hers?
I snap a magazine into place, the click echoing in the quiet. The sound settles something in me—until the door creaks open.
I glance up. She stands in the doorway, barefoot, wearing one of those silk slips that whisper around her legs when she moves. Her eyes flick from the table to the disassembled rifle laid out in perfect order, then back to me.
Her voice is small but sharp. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning,” I say simply.
She steps closer, hesitant but bold enough to challenge me. “You look like you’re preparing for war.”
I set the rifle down and meet her gaze. “Maybe I am.”
Her brows draw together. “Why? What’s going on?”
There’s no point lying to her—not anymore. “Your father is coming for you. He knows you’re with me.”
She stiffens, lips parting.
“And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you away from me.”
Her voice trembles now, though she tries to hide it. “Anyone?”
I nod once. “Anyone.”
She hesitates, then whispers the question that’s obviously been clawing at her since the words left my mouth: “Even my father?”
I hold her gaze, unflinching. “If he comes to hurt you, yes. Especially him. I won’t think twice about it, Elara. Your father is a sorry excuse of a man.”
Chapter 17 – Elara
It’s been two days since I walked in on Roman cleaning his weapons, and in those two days, something between us has gone quiet. Hollow. We haven’t spoken beyond short nods at breakfast or in passing through the hall. I haven’t slept in his bed since that night, and every night, a part of me keeps waiting for the inevitable order to return, but it never comes.
He doesn’t come to my room. Doesn’t look for me. Doesn’t even ask.
Maybe this is what I wanted—distance—but it doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like punishment.
By noon, I can’t stand staring at the ceiling anymore. I get up, throw on a soft sweater and jeans, and decide to head to the library to paint. Maybe losing myself in the strokes of a brush will silence the storm in my chest. Sasha had offered to take me out to lunch earlier, but with the rumors of my father’s men circling like wolves, I can’t risk leaving the estate.
The house is too big, too still. My footsteps echo through the marble corridor as I round the bend that leads toward the library, and that’s when I hear them. Voices. Low. Urgent.
